


One Lifetime

by outcastsnmagic



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Humor, M/M, Not Beta Read, Romance, Self-Discovery, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:55:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25066504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outcastsnmagic/pseuds/outcastsnmagic
Summary: In a world that rapidly begins to change just as he turns of age Bilbo finds himself thrust into the current of life. With the wisdom bestowed upon him in his youth he embarks on a journey to find his foothold and discovers that the treasures of the past somehow find their way back.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Bofur
Comments: 15
Kudos: 24





	1. The Encampment

The first time he ever exchanged words with a foreigner he was accompanying his mother to the edges of the Shire on business. Springtime was upon them and the first of the rainstorms had soaked through the ground and awoken the earth from its slumber. The pungent smell of green and grass and dew filled the morning air, and in the distance songbirds could be heard singing in the treetops. 

The emissaries were camped just outside of Tuckborough, between the southern edges of the Shire and the South Downs; a caravan of dwarves from the Blue Mountains he was told. They were noble and hearty folk who took pride in their craft, fashioning beautiful things out of the precious metals and stones they procured from the earth. To the young hobbit they sounded just like the stories he heard from the strange folk who passed through the Shire. His mother always told him such fanciful stories just barely scraped the surface when it came to understanding other people, and that he shouldn’t take too much to those tales. Regardless Bilbo could not help falling into the wonder of such stories. 

“While I don’t mind you wondering around a bit, I would like you stay close to the camp—,” his mother instructed as they passed the signpost just outside of Tuckborough.

“I’m hardly a faunt anymore, mother,” he grumbled, picking at a tall stalk of grass on the side of the pathway. His mother gave him a look that dared him to talk back again, to which he instantly shrunk back and issued out a quick ‘yes mother’. 

“I know you can handle yourself, Bilbo. You’re my son after all,” she reassured him with a smile, ruffling his reddish-gold curls, “But there are precautions you should always take regardless of your business.”

He returned the smile shyly, falling into step as they rounded another bend in the pathway. The day was just nearing mid morning and the sun decided to come out of hiding from behind the grey cloud cover. A green breasted lark fluttered by them and landed upon a wooden fence post, chirping loudly as they passed. 

“It’s a big wide world out there,” she mused, “If you’re not careful it will capture your heart, and who knows where you’ll go.” 

Her words puzzled him, but he was young and impressionable and the promise of adventure that came with his first venture beyond the borders of the Shire was too much of an excitement to dwell on such a riddle. 

The first signs he saw of these dwarven folk were the goats. A group of them were tethered to a thicket of trees just outside the encampment, a dozen or so of them grazing on the tall grass at their feet. From a distance one might mistake the goats for large sheep if not for their giant curved horns and the protective plating that adorned their faces and wooly bodies. They were as majestic as they were strange and Bilbo couldn’t help wondering if their coats felt the same as the old wooly long horn cow that grazed in the pasture down the hill from Bag End. 

He trotted a little closer to his mother when they approached the encampment, an esquire meeting them at the edge. The dwarf was dressed in a dark blue robe with intricate gold embroidery along the sleeves and lapels. What Bilbo could see of their face was weathered but strong. The dwarf’s broad nose and firm brow only enhanced by the thick dark hair and beard that was styled with plaits and silver beads. They were unlike anyone Bilbo had ever seen but also just as he imagined; a bit taller and stockier than hobbits and with much more hair!

The esquire exchanged a few words with his mother, most of which Bilbo missed as his eyes were drawn to the site just beyond. Three or four covered wagons flanked a semicircle of broad-beamed tents that were held up with lengths of rope secured to metal stakes. The center most tent in the circle differed from the others. It was noticeably larger, its canvas a deep sapphire blue, the edges decorated with a white trim embroidered with gold thread. Around it sat several smaller tents that were adorned with various goods and wares. Large woven mats were set out before them with baskets of fine cloth and boxes filled with glimmering golden oddities.

It was a sight indeed. 

“Come along, Bilbo,” his mother urged him when the esquire led them into the encampment. 

He followed her obediently, staying on her heel as they made their way through the camp to the large blue tent. Once there, they were greeted by two more dwarves and a tall man in a grey robe and pointed hat. Bilbo straightened himself a bit more when they made their greeting, introducing himself just as his mother coached him. The dwarves and the man returned his greeting with a polite bow to which Bilbo couldn’t help the beaming smile that spread across his face. 

What little he understood about his mother’s line of work at least the formalities were similar to what he’d been taught in the Shire. Politeness and respect, among other things, were key in developing good relationships, he was told. A woodworker wouldn’t dare bad mouth the potato farmer unless he wanted his yam bags marked up twice the price the next time he visited. It was a two-way path regardless of the situation. 

“Would young master Baggins care to sit in on the meeting?” the man in the grey robe inquired, turning to Bilbo as they entered the tent. 

Bilbo looked up at the man, a bit surprise at being addressed. The man’s eyes were a striking icy blue that had a fire to them the halfling couldn’t quite explain. His face was wrinkled and weathered, though there was a spark of something beneath that unassuming exterior. The long grey beard matched the man’s long silver hair, though unlike the dwarves it flowed freely. 

Bilbo glanced between the man and his mother, “If I may, I would very much like to look around,” he requested politely. 

“That can certainly be arranged. With your permission, of course” the esquire offered, turning toward Bilbo’s mother, “Do you require an escort to accompany him?”

“An escort will not be needed,” she replied, “Though I would like him to not wander outside the camp premise.”

The esquire nodded agreeably and Bilbo was led out of the tent and given a brief explanation on the layout of the encampment, as well as where the guards where stationed should he need to alert them to anything. He thanked the dwarf with a small bow before wandering slowly toward to one of the tents at the far side of the encampment. 

Along the way he passed a group of hunters returning with the day’s kill. They regarded him with curious stares, one of them stopping to look Bilbo up and down. They were rather tall compared to the others. Their shoulders were broad and their dark hair was shorn around the crown of their head save for a prominent strip that extended down the middle. Faint grey markings could be seen on the bald parts of the dwarf’s head. 

Bilbo fidgeted under their gaze but greeted them nonetheless despite his urge to shrink back and hide. The dwarf let out a low rumbling laughter and knelt down, holding out a small smooth rock to him. Bilbo took it hesitantly, but gratefully. The surface was polished to an even shine and there was something carved onto the face that Bilbo could not read. He would have to ask his mother about it later, but right now he stared down at the token in wonder. The dwarf said something to him in a language he could not understand but Bilbo found he did not mind. When the dwarf rose to leave Bilbo thanked them once again. He would hold onto the token for many more years before learning its meaning. 

The young hobbit continued his exploration of the camp with this token tucked safely into his trouser pocket, feeling a bit better about approaching the various shop keepers. They sold a variety of goods from ales to fine fabrics, precious jewelry and gems, and even carvings made of wood and stone. He found the craftsmanship nothing short of extraordinary. 

One thing the halfling learned while browsing the wares was that dwarves loved color. Their choices in color reminded him of autumn, specifically the colors of the leaves. All the tales of road beaten wanderers and coal covered mountain folk never mentioned reds and oranges and yellows, or the muted blues, greens and purples. The idea that dwarves were grey and colorless like the mountains they dwelled in seemed unfair to the young hobbit now that he was immersed in the beauty of their craft. 

“Not often folk find as much interest in our wares as you have, little master,” the merchant chuckled as Bilbo examined an embroidered hand towel. The main cloth was a deep wine red color and had a yellow and white thread border that extended evenly, about a fingers width away, all around the edges. 

“It’s all so beautiful,” the halfling complimented, grinning at the dwarf. Of all of the merchants the hobbit conversed with he found this one to be easy to approach. It may have been the kind smile they greeted him with, or the fact that they were dressed rather elegantly, that made him feel more comfortable. Their beard was groomed similarly to the emissaries, neatly combed and pulled back into plaits. It was brownish red in color with streaks of silver and was woven around their chin and up into their hair in such a manner Bilbo wondered how they managed to do it. A decorative clasp held the two braids that framed their chin. 

“How do you choose the colors?” he inquired, turning the cloth over in his hands. The merchant chuckled and considered the question.

“Well,” they began, “How does a hobbit choose a color?”

The halfling furrowed his brow. He hadn’t really considered it.

“I can really only speak for myself,” the hobbit replied, “But I know I like bright colors, like yellow and red. My father says I pick colors that look good in the sunlight.”

The dwarf grinned, “That seemed fitting, don’t you think? Hobbits enjoy colors that radiate under the sunlight.” 

Bilbo nodded. It did make a lot of sense when it was explained that way. Of all the times he’d gone down to the market and reveled in the sights and sounds and colors what really made those days wonderful is if the sun was high in the sky and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. 

“So... are your colors chosen because it’s dark under the mountain?”

“Not quite,” the dwarf laughed, “We dwarves, our eyes are not made for the bright sunlight like you hobbits. Yes, we spend most of our days under the mountain but it’s never just dark. There’s always golden light somewhere, whether it’s the light of the forges or the feasting hall.”

Bilbo thought back to Bag End and how his father always made sure to light the candles and stoke the fire before the sun set because it got so dark. He supposed living under a mountain they would need a lot of candles or fireplaces. 

“These colors,” the hobbit mused gazing back down at the cloth, “They are like firelight on stone.”

“That’s a good way to put it,” the dwarf agreed. Bilbo folded the cloth neatly about its corners, his imagination wandering to what splendor lay within the dwellings of the dwarves. He wondered what firelight on stone looked like. Did the grey cold nature of the hard earth come alive like the bowed wooden beams of a smial? Or was it like the sunlight on the polished surface of a gold bracelet? 

“What is your favorite color?” he asked the merchant. The dwarf hummed in contemplation. 

“I rather like purple,” they responded after some thought, “Though any dwarf could tell you gold is their preferred choice.” 

Bilbo tilted his head. “Why gold?” 

“It’s the brightest color we know,” the dwarf said, “And it’s the first, and last, color we see. ”

It was an odd answer that puzzled the halfling. He understood that dwarves had an affinity for gold in general and the preference of the color above others would make sense within that context, but there was something more to the merchant’s statement that Bilbo couldn’t quite put a finger on. 

“Thank you for telling me about your tapestries,” he managed, holding the cloth out to the dwarf. The merchant smiled warmly at him and closed the halflings hands around the fabric.

“Keep it,” they urged.

“I… I couldn’t possibly,” the hobbit protested, looking between the cloth and the dwarf, “I should at least pay you.”

The dwarf shook their head, “It is a gift.”

Bilbo wanted to protest more but with the dwarf’s declaration he couldn’t return it now. He relented and thanked the dwarf for the gift, departing with uncertain resolve about the exchange but grateful at the dwarf’s kindness. 

By now the sun had reached high noon and the clouds from the morning rain had finally burned off. Bilbo made his way slowly toward the big blue tent. The meeting was adjourned momentarily for lunch and so he joined his mother at the table for a bowl of stew and biscuits. He wrapped the stone token into the cloth and placed it back inside his pocket before starting his meal. 

The food was agreeable enough, and while the broth wasn’t as creamy as Bilbo would have liked the halfling wasn’t about to turn down a meal. It would be rude by hobbit standards, and even more so in the present circumstances. He did, however, sneak a biscuit into his pocket for later. 

“Is the young master enjoying his first adventure outside of Hobbiton?” 

Bilbo turned his eyes up at the voice. It was the man in the grey robe again. He had since removed his pointy hat and pulled his hair back into a loose pony tale. A long slender pipe sat balanced in his wrinkly hand. 

“I am, sir,” Bilbo replied once he had swallowed the food he was chewing and wiped his lips, “The dwarves are quite kindly folk.” 

“Indeed,” the man said, taking a seat beside the halfling. “I supposed I should introduce myself. My name is Gandalf the Grey.” 

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gandalf,” Bilbo returned politely, “You are here on business too?”

“In a way,” he replied as he stuffed the bowl of his pipe, “I am more of an advisor for things like this.”

Bilbo hummed in acknowledgement, taking a small bite of his biscuit and watching as Gandalf lit his pipe. What caught his eye was the small flame that the man guided into the bowl of his pipe. The halfling hadn’t seen the man light a piece of tinder. When he pulled his fingers away Bilbo was shocked to see that the flame danced just above the man’s thumb. It was gone with just a flick. Bilbo almost dropped his biscuit.

“You’re a—” Bilbo started but stopped himself before he got caught speaking with his mouth full. He knew of the existence of wizards only from the tales he heard among folk who passed through the Shire and the few books that sat in his father’s study. They were mysterious, unassuming individuals who wandered Middle Earth. To happen upon one was a rare occasion and, even then, one might not realized they came across a wizard’s path. 

The halfling wasn’t sure if he felt excitement or trepidation at the knowledge he was sitting next to a wizard. The youthful urge to ask the man all sorts of question was evenly quelled by a youthful unease. Perhaps a few questions wouldn’t hurt. 

“Bilbo, are you finished with your food?” his mother’s voice pulled him away from his musings. 

“Ah... yes, just a moment.”

He quickly ate the last few bites of his biscuit before letting the serving staff take the bowl away. It seemed the meeting would resume so the young hobbit held off the questions for the wizard and made his way back outside. 

With a full stomach the hobbit found himself feeling a bit drowsy. There were still a couple merchants he wanted to visit, but right now a nap sounded quite nice. A little ways outside the semicircle of tents and behind the wagons Bilbo found the perfect patch of grass under a tree. The bubbling of a brook could be heard nearby, which the young hobbit sought out despite that it fell outside the boundaries of the camp. When he found it he sat and watched the water a bit. A few skippers glided over the surface and he cold see tiny tadpoles wriggling in the mud below. He followed the brook a little ways to the south, making sure to keep the camp in site as he did. Bilbo had only gone a few yards when he heard the faint sound of a flute. 

He listened a little closer. 

At first he thought it was just his imagination, though as he continued walking along the edge of the water the sound became clearer. It didn’t have the same hollowed sound as the wooden flutes common in the Shire but the staccato was bright and jovial and reminded Bilbo of the jigs the Old Bywater Band played at the Green Dragon on warm summer evenings. Perhaps it was one of those fancy metal flutes like the one Old Took had up on his mantle. Strange thing those were, rather large and clunky for a hobbit to play. 

It mattered not what he thought it was as he soon found the source the music. Just ahead the brook spilled into a shallow pond surrounded by tall grass and cattails on one side. A small rocky beach extended along the length of the western bank and it was here Bilbo laid his eyes upon the musician. 

They were a dwarf by the looks of it, the geometric patterns that lined the edges of the golden-brown tunic they wore unmistakably dwarven in the style. The dark umber hair that adorned their head was parted into three. The two sides pieces were braided down the front of their shoulders while the third piece extended down their back and was secured at the bottom with a clasp. A pair of fur lined boots sat on the bank next to them with a wool-lined hat placed on top. Their pant legs were rolled up to the top of their shins and the halfling could see the remnants of mud on their feet and ankles. 

Bilbo snuck a little closer before stopping and listening to the tune through to the end. It was lovely little jig and he was a bit disappointed when it ended. 

The musician must have become aware of his presence as they lowered the instrument from their lips. They called out something in that language again and Bilbo had to scramble to find something to respond with. At the silence the dwarf turned his direction, surprise quickly overtaking their face at the sight of the hobbit. 

Bilbo raised his hands a bit to show he meant no ill. “I… hope I didn’t startle you too much,” he said carefully. 

The dwarf looked quite different from the ones Bilbo met in the camp. They had barely any facial hair, save for a small section under their nose and a patch on their chin.

“Yer a halfling!” the dwarf responded excitedly once their shock had passed. Bilbo stared back at them, rather perplexed. 

“Yes... I am,” he confirmed hesitantly. 

The dwarf stood rather abruptly, brushing the dirt from their trousers before coming over to Bilbo. The hobbit took a step back when the dwarf stopped in front of him. They seemed to look anywhere else but Bilbo’s face, as if sizing him up, and the hobbit wasn’t sure what to do. The dwarf looked him up and down, and around, and even had the audacity to run a finger over one of Bilbo’s ears. 

“What are you doing?!” the halfling sputtered, jerking away from the dwarf’s touch and covering his ear. Bilbo could feel heat rising in his cheeks. The emotions that sprung up in his chest where tumultuous, making it difficult for him to decide if it was anger or embarrassment he felt. The dwarf seemed to catch on pretty quickly that they’d overstepped a boundary, a look of realization and then shame passing over their face. 

“I… I’m sorry,” they stammered, hands fisting the front of their tunic nervously, “’Tis my first time away from home— and I got excited… and… I- I’m really sorry!”

The dwarf bowed their head in apology, their braids flopping awkwardly about their shoulders. Bilbo observed them with curiosity. He couldn’t tell what age they were but from their mannerisms he guessed they must be younger than most of the dwarves in the camp. They stood a good head and a half taller than Bilbo, but weren’t quite as broad. 

The halfling slowly lowered his hand from his ear and let out a soft sigh. It was a genuine apology and Bilbo couldn’t fault them for having such curiosity. He knew it well enough, and was in very much the same boat as they were. 

“It’s alright,” he reassured softly, “I was just a bit startled is all.”

The dwarf straightened up and adjusted their tunic a bit before looking the halfling in the eyes for the first time. Now that Bilbo could look at them properly he could see the youthfulness in their features. The round cheekbones sloped down to a sturdy jawline and chin. The scruffy patch of hair on the dwarf’s chin was less of a scruffy patch and more of a carefully trimmed goatee. They had the beginnings of a mustache though it hadn’t quite grown to fullness yet.

“Let me do this proper,” the dwarf suggested, squaring their shoulders a bit and clearing their throat. Bilbo found himself straightening up a bit as well when the dwarf extended out their hand. 

“My name’s Bofur, of the Blue Mountains,” the dwarf greeted with a reserved smile.

Bilbo took Bofur’s hand and shook it easily, a small smile forming on his lips as well. 

“Pleased to meet you, Bofur,” he returned, “I am Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire.”


	2. When We Meet Again

Bilbo managed to convince his mother to take him with her the next day despite the scolding he received the moment they returned home the day before. He had tried to reassure her he was safe but she wasn’t hearing it then, and certainly wasn’t about to hear it again as they prepared that morning. 

“You’re lucky that I’m your mother and I need you to learn this,” was all she told him as she adjusted his collar at the door. It was a mild admonishment compared to what it _could_ have been but Bilbo knew better than to think he was in the clear. 

He had spent the rest of the previous afternoon sitting on the banks of the pond chatting with Bofur and had lost track of time. When a couple of dwarven guards found them Bilbo had to leave the young dwarf with a hasty goodbye and prepare himself for the unpleasant lecture he was sure to get when his mother got him alone. Thankfully she spared him the embarrassment at the camp by waiting to rip into him once they stepped through the door at Bag End. But none of it accounted for the embarrassment he caused her. 

Bilbo adjusted his book bag over his shoulder, making sure not to rattle the it too much and spill the ink all over the interior. Today was to be an educational day for him. His mother wanted him to take notes throughout the first half of the meeting, as they would be discussing some trade deals that were important to the economics between the Shire and the Blue Mountains. 

Bilbo accepted the task with obedient resolve. And while he was not pleased he would need to be assigned an escort today he took the news with as much stride as his young heart could muster. 

The weather was fairer today, the sun coming out from behind the clouds well before mid morning and warming the path. The songbirds were out in full as well, their jigs and sonnets filling the air all the way from Hobbiton to Tuckborough. 

They made it to the encampment in a timely manner, greeting the dwarves at the blue tent and proceeded with the meeting accordingly. Bilbo took up the seat next to his mother and promptly pulled out his notebook and writing utensils. He was relieved to find his bag survived the walk and carefully uncorked the inkpot and set it beside his notebook. The quills were a little ruffled up but the nibs were intact nonetheless. 

He then opened the notebook to the first page and scribed the date into the top left hand corner. Under that he listed the subject of today’s meeting and then the individuals who would be present. As he did this he noticed that Gandalf was not in attendance today. He posited the absence to the wizard having business elsewhere. Or maybe he fell asleep under a tree nearby. 

The halfling couldn’t help snorting at the image of the wizard rushing in with his hair a mess of grass and leaves and spouting that he forgot there was a meeting. Could a wizard be that uncouth? Bilbo hoped he would come across the wise grey man before the day’s end.

The meeting began uneventfully, Bilbo listening carefully and noting down the three main economic arrangements that were to be discussed. Since hobbits rarely had need for cold material goods like jewelry and gems, the bulk of the conversation centered on iron trade, textiles and masonry. The young hobbit wrote down each suggestion or offer. He adjusted previous statements in the log or completely crossed them out or added them below. At times his mother would glance over and review his progress, giving him a few pointers before returning her attention to the discussion. It was the most writing he had done in a long while. The last time being was when he helped his father scribe addresses onto the envelops of notices that were to be sent to all the houses in the Shire. 

By the time they stopped for a short break it was mid morning and Bilbo’s hand had gotten quite sore. He flexed his fingers a couple of times and gently massaged the joints above his knuckles. This eased the pain a bit but he knew he’d have to apply some salve to them when they returned home. Maybe even soak them in some warm water. 

A servant offered him a cup of tea, which he took graciously. The piney scent mixed with a faint note of mint filled his nose as he gently blew the steam away from the surface. The warm edges of the cup felt good on his palms too. 

“Let’s see how you’ve done,” his mother piped up, taking Bilbo’s notebook and reading through his notes. The young hobbit watched her intently over the brim of his teacup. Her expressions didn’t read either negative or positive, and while Bilbo hoped his notes would suffice this was his first time recording minutes and there was bound to be critiques.

“You’ve done quite well for your first meeting, though there is room for improvement,” she concluded, giving Bilbo a reassuring pat and setting the notebook back on the table. “Might get your father to teach you a little shorthand, don’t you think?”

Bilbo agreed wholeheartedly. He’d seen his father write down a whole conversation without once having to glance down at his paper. A skill like that wasn’t common in the Shire as hobbits rarely saw the need to make long conversation. When they did, recollection was held on the honor of the parties involved, and that rarely called for documentation. Of course, there were situations where a scribe was required, though most of those instances were also conjoined with legal and political side of Shire society. Bilbo’s father took more to that branch, and had attempted several times to get the young hobbit to take to it as well, all unsuccessful. 

_‘Not enough spitfire,’ his father had bemoaned, ‘and he’s got ‘Took’ in him! There’s bound to be some in there somewhere.’_

The halfling was too young at the time to comprehend his father’s words, let alone understand the propriety that hung to his surname. Even so, as he grew older his ears began to catch these whispers and the generations old reputation slowly began to bear down on him. It also left him dumbfounded when his father lent his unwavering support when Bilbo finally decided to declare his choice to take up his mother’s work. For all the senior Baggins’s theatrics the old hobbit accepted and understood Bilbo’s choice. 

“Ready to finish this?” his mother asked. Bilbo nodded, finishing the last of his tea before taking up his quill again. 

The last half of the meeting proceeded much quicker and Bilbo was finally released to roam the camp for the afternoon. Under the watchful eye of an escort, of course. He took his lunch in a grassy patch next to the blue tent and watched the dwarves go about their chores. The hunters he met yesterday were busy sharpening their blades over a slow cooking leg of deer, their deep, hearty laughter reaching the halfling’s ears over the whistle of grasshoppers. Most of the merchants had their tents closed today, save for one on the north end of the camp. 

The air hung a bit heavier today with the sun’s rays warming the ground and filling the grove with a humid earthy aroma. Many of the dwarves had removed their thick tunics in preference for their lighter weight cotton undershirts. Many were also walking around barefoot. It then occurred to the hobbit that this weather was warmer than the dwarves were used to, and garments such as shoes might be burdening in the warm weather. 

How odd shoes were. And how uncomfortable they must be.

They pinched the toes and seemed right dreadful when they got wet. At least that was what Bilbo concluded when the young dwarf, Bofur, went into a fuss over accidently knocking a boot into the pond yesterday. The incident prompted the halfling to inquire about the garment and resulted in an impromptu comparison of hobbit and dwarf feet. 

_“You don’t have hair on your feet,” the hobbit pointed out, “Don’t they get cold?”_

_The dwarf held up the one dry boot, “That’s why we have these.”_

_“And it isn’t uncomfortable?”_

_The dwarf laughed, setting the thing down behind them. “Aye, when they don’t fit they can be. But the leather and fur holds the heat in. Kinda like a hat, or mittens. You... wear mittens don’t you?”_

_“In the fall and winter,” the hobbit replied._

_“Well, then think of ‘em like mittens but for your feet!” the dwarf suggested brightly._

_The image made Bilbo laugh._

Come to think of it he hadn’t seen Bofur around the camp yet. There was the possibility the dwarf was back out by the brook but considering most of the dwarves were taking their meals it was more likely Bofur was in one of the tents. Either way the hobbit felt the urge to seek out his newfound dwarf companion. 

He returned his bowl to the servants inside the blue tent before retrieving his bag and wandering over to the one tent that wasn’t closed up.

One of the first things he noticed upon approaching was that the mat was a bit more worn than the others. There were parts of it where the threads were coming loose and the color had faded a bit but it seemed to hold up well enough. There were several trays of tiny wooden figurines, each row a different color wood. Behind those sat some larger pieces, a blue and yellow painted cart with a small length of twine running off the front and a goat figurine that rocked back and forth on the two curved bands of wood attached to the legs. 

“Oh—! Hello,” Bilbo greeted when a large dwarf suddenly emerged from the tent. The dwarf stared at him for a second before turning and hastily setting aside the two wooden bowls in their hands. 

“Good afternoon,” the dwarf said once they turn back around, “Ya’ don’t happen to be the halflin’ Bofur was going on about?”

A bit caught of his guard Bilbo stared back at the dwarf in silence. When his words caught up to him he nodded, “I did talk to him yesterday. For a bit.”

The dwarf grunted in response before calling back into the tent in Khuzdul. The halfling still felt a bit odd not knowing what was being said though mother told him not to let it get to him.

_“Dwarves are a particularly secretive race regarding their culture,” she explained, “If they ever do share a part of it with you it’s because they find you honorable.”_

Her words got the halfling wondering about his token and the conversation he had with the merchant. Would those have been considered secrets? 

Bilbo broke out of his thoughts when a familiar figure emerged from the tent and gave him a bright smile. Bofur was dressed in a dark grey tunic with a purple trousers and the dwarf’s hair, to the halfling’s surprise, was loose and fell about in wavy curls. 

The two greeted each other warmly, and properly, before Bofur inquired about what brought the hobbit to their tent. Bilbo stammered out his response, saying he was curious about their wares all while attempting to conceal his embarrassment about why he was really there. The young dwarf took his words with stride, introducing Bilbo to the older dwarf, whose name was ‘Bifur’, before ushering the hobbit over to a section of the goods. 

“Cousin Bifur’s a toymaker,” Bofur declared, picking up an intricate metal bauble in the shape of an eagle and handing it to Bilbo. The hobbit took it with interest, gently turning the crank at dwarf’s instruction and gasping when the eagle’s wings began to move up and down. It was such a delicate piece and it was clear the mechanics were precise for it to move so smoothly. Bilbo wondered how a dwarf could make something so small. It seemed a feat difficult for a hobbit even, and hobbits were known to have nimble fingers. 

Bofur showed Bilbo a few other fanciful mechanical pieces. There was a shimmering pinwheel made of thin sheets of copper that spun in the wind, and a few colorful tops where the design changed as they turned. The small tubular piece with the angled glass, that created tiny rainbows when turned toward the light, was one of Bilbo’s favorites. 

When he asked Bifur what the price of the trinket was the old dwarf offered to let the hobbit have it free of charge. The halfling insisted on paying, stating that it would be impolite on his part to not pay for the work someone else did to produce something so beautiful. The young hobbit also didn’t want a repeat of what happened yesterday. And while he was grateful to the textile merchant for the cloth his uneasiness around the exchange did plague him for the remainder of the day. 

Once he and Bifur agreed upon a price for the small trinket Bilbo happily tucked the ‘kaleidoscope’ into his pack, thanking Bifur for the exchange and returning his attention to Bofur.

“Wanna go down to the creek?” the dwarf asked.

Bilbo nodded. Not wanting Bofur to know he was being overlooked Bilbo asked the dwarf to wait at the tent and scurried over to inform his escort. When he returned Bofur had his flute case strapped over his shoulder and a small pack. Bilbo took note of its worn down leather, wondering how long Bofur had owned it and where in the world it had traveled. It was practically inseparable from the dwarf. 

Once they had everything they needed the two wandered back behind the camp, deciding to walk upstream this time. They found a small rocky outcrop that overlooked a wide section of the stream and settled down in the sun. Bofur brought along a small woolen blanket for them to sit on which greatly improved the comfort of the spot. 

Bilbo took his jacket off and set it over his pack neatly before laying down on his back and gazing up at the blue sky. The sun felt so warm on his face and here they didn’t have to worry too much about the wind as the trees blocked most of the northward breeze. Bofur perched himself to Bilbo’s right and began cleaning his flute. 

“What kinda work does your ma do?” dwarf started.

The hobbit hummed and turned his gaze. “She calls it ‘foreign relations’. The Shire has agreements and treaties with the surrounding areas, like Buckland or Bree. She deals with the folks outside of the Shire and makes sure those agreements are upheld.”

The dwarf listened attentively, “So right now she’s talking with the fancy dwarves,” he stated. Bilbo sat up and stared at him.

“‘ _Fancy_ dwarves’?” he questioned. 

Bofur turned to him with a look that read ‘I said what I meant’ though Bilbo wasn’t sure what to think. 

“There are fancy people everywhere,” Bofur said matter-of-factly, “There’s gotta be fancy hobbits too, right?”

Bilbo didn’t quite know what to say, but mumbled out a resolute ‘sure’. Most hobbits were well off but he did suppose there were families who had a bit more, his family being one of them. 

The hobbit decided it a better idea to let the matter go. He didn’t really feel like getting into a conversation over the odd nickname. Instead he lay back down and occupied himself with listening to wind and the crickets and the occasional note Bofur would play on his flute. 

There was a tranquility to the moment, just the two of them basking in the spring sunlight with naught but the birds and blue sky and the lilt of the flute carrying on the wind. Time felt like it didn’t exist, and the hobbit secretly yearned this feeling would last forever. 

“Do you write your own songs, Bofur?” 

The dwarf played a few drawn out notes before lowering the instrument, “Sometimes. They usually spring up at the worst times though.”

Bilbo turned over to face Bofur, his interest piqued, “Really? How so?”

“Like when I’m working the stall with Bifur, or when I’m sorting through nails at the forge,” the dwarf shrugged meekly. 

Bilbo frowned, “I don’t see why that’s bad…”

Bofur chuckled, “Well, when it distracts you from bartering or sorting out the bad nails it can be. I don’t know I just… once a tune gets in my head it just takes over.”

“Well, if it’s any comfort, we hobbits love a good song at any time of the day,” Bilbo said as he sat up and stretched out his back. 

The edges of Bofur’s eyes crinkled up in that way they did when he smiled. As if some inspiration struck him Bofur played a short motif. Bilbo listened carefully as each note lingered in the air around them before rising upward like the drafts that carried the eagles high into the clouds. It was a slow, almost soulful melody that soared and dropped and was filled with the mysticism of a far off place shrouded in the burning mist of an eastern sunrise. A strange tightness formed inside the hobbit’s chest causing him a bit of a start. He had to turn away for a moment and wasn’t sure why. 

“Does… it have a name?” he managed. 

The dwarf shook his head, “Just made it up now.”

The melody stayed with Bilbo for the remainder of that afternoon, and all through the walk home. When they finished supper that evening, and his parents retired to finish their separate work, Bilbo found himself humming it softly as he sat huddled in the chair by the hearth. His notebook lay open on the table beside him along with the kaleidoscope. 

“Gold is the warmest color…” he murmured, picking up the trinket and holding it to his face. The firelight danced brilliantly before his eyes in glimmering golden fractals. He could see it now. The roaring fires and the pounding hammers on heated metal. The vast green halls filled with golden light that illuminated the glimmering mineral veins that crept across the high vaulted ceilings. 

The young hobbit pulled his notebook onto his lap and began to write. 

The next day brought grim grey clouds and rain. The pathway out of Tuckborough was muddy and soft and slick underfoot. And while the rainfall had lightened up a bit since the morning it showed no signs of stopping. 

Bilbo kept quiet for most of the ride, holding tightly to his mother’s waist as she urged the pony up and over the next hill. It was the last day the dwarves were going to spend on the borders of the Shire before continuing east to the Misty Mountains. The agreements had been finalized the previous afternoon. All that needed to happen now was the agreements to be signed, and a copy given to each party. 

When they arrived at the camp most of the tents had been taken down save for the blue one. The dwarves milled about in organized bustle, rolling up canvases and strapping them securely to the sideboards of their wagons. The wooly goats stamped idly in the wet grass as they were harnessed to the neck yokes. 

An esquire held the pony steady as they dismounted. Bilbo slipped carefully off the back of the saddle and followed quickly after his mother. His mind was distracted though. His eyes searched about the camp but the rain and the many dwarves draped in dark hooded cloaks made it difficult to pick out the individual he was looking for.

They were ushered into the dry of the tent and given a warm cup of tea to chase away the chill. Bilbo fidgeted by his mother’s side as she produced the documents for the emissaries to review. Time ticked by slowly and Bilbo’s gaze kept wondering to the entrance of the tent. He thought to ask his mother if he could run his errand but quickly dismissed the idea as the emissaries concluded their review and began the signing. The young hobbit turned his full attention to the exchange and took note of the inclusion of signatures and an ink press on the agreements. Both copies were signed and returned to the respective parties before they each gave their farewell formalities. 

The two hobbits then donned their cloaks and stepped back out into the rain. Bilbo looked around the camp again, a sinking feeling beginning to settle uncomfortably in his stomach. He would be remiss if he left before bidding Bofur farewell, as he’d become rather fond of the dwarf in the short time they spent together. The thought that they may not see each other again crept to the forefront of his mind only for him to push it away indignantly. 

“Bilbo?” 

The young hobbit turned at his mother’s call. She was gazing back at him with a curious look. Bilbo swallowed down the disappointment that welled up in his chest as best he could, trudging the last few paces over to the pony and letting his mother help him onto its back. 

His mother mounted shortly after she secured her bag to the saddle. The esquire handed her the reigns, bidding them both farewell and safe trip back to Hobbiton. They carefully picked their way through the dwarves and back to the muddy road just as the rain began to pick up in earnest again. Bilbo turned his gaze over his shoulder and back to the camp. The time he spent here, every bit of it; the good, the awkward, the joy and the learning, it almost felt like the vestiges of a wondrous dream that was slowly beginning to fade. And he didn’t want to leave it. 

The halfling let his gaze sweep over the sight one last time, trying to hold onto every detail he could but his eyes locked onto the wagon at the north end of the camp. 

All that happened next was a flurry of sight and sound. He was off the back of the pony in a matter of seconds, hardly registering the surprised gasp of his mother as he raced back across the grassy glade. All he could feel was the wet grass beneath his feet and rain on his face and the beating of his heart high in his ears. Bilbo couldn’t even remember calling out the dwarf’s name as he reached the wagon, almost taking a tumble as his feet slipped on the damp. 

Bofur caught him before he managed to fall on his face, pulling the hobbit up with an amused chuckle and playfully admonishing his recklessness. Bilbo didn’t hear any of it but he smiled nonetheless and wiped the water from his eyes before straightening himself and taking a few deep breaths. 

“Hello Bilbo,” Bofur greeted.

The hobbit let out a breathy laugh, lifting his eyes up to the dwarf’s once he regained his composure, “Good day, Bofur.”

The dwarf smiled warmly. He was dressed in a traveling cloak much like the other dwarves though his was colored in a distinct, faded yellow. It lacked a hood and instead the dwarf wore that odd fur-lined hat Bilbo had seen the first day by the brook.

“I— I thought I’d wish you farewell since… you’re leaving,” Bilbo confessed, wringing his hands as he spoke. He remembered the small folded papers in his coat and quickly, but carefully, pulled them out and held them out to the dwarf. The papers were folded safely in a thin cut of leather with a length of twine securing it. 

“You hadn’t thought of a name, for that song so… I wrote down ideas, in case you needed any,” Bilbo could feel the heat rising in his face as he stammered through his explanation. The dwarf took the parcel and studied it carefully. His expression was one of awe, and perhaps a bit of surprise. 

“I— This…” the dwarf seemed just as lost for words as Bilbo.

Bilbo bowed his head slightly, “I hope I’ll be able to hear it one day.”

The words were bittersweet and hopeful and filled the halfling with so many strange emotions. 

“Thank you, Bilbo,” Bofur said finally, tucking the pages to his chest before reaching out and giving Bilbo a firm pat on the shoulder. “I hope our paths cross again too.”

Watching the camp disappear over the hill no longer felt like a part of him was being wrenched away. The memory would have a special place in his heart for many years to come. And although his mind often wondered to the dwarf with the kind smile Bilbo took solace in knowing when he looked up at the starry sky that somewhere Bofur might be playing his flute under the same stars.

In the years to come, many things changed. Just as green turned to gold and fall descended upon the little hamlet, word of Gondor’s crown prince reached the Shire. It was an exciting time, if a bit stressful for the Baggins household as Bilbo’s father, along with Old Took and a handful of counsel members, were expected to travel southeast to the White City as representatives of the Shire. Many worried that winter would come upon them before the group’s return so arrangements were made for other individuals in the community to hold their seats in counsel should the return be delayed. 

To Bilbo’s dismay this meant he had to drop the lessons with his mother to learn a lot of legal and political matters he really did not want to stick his hands in. 

“It’ll only be for the duration of my absence. I suspect no longer than a season,” his father reassured with hardy pat on the shoulder. The young Baggins acknowledged this with as much grace as he could, wishing his father safe travels as he and his mother watched the old hobbit walk beyond the front gate and down the road.

The days that followed would prove to be difficult. Bilbo fell into the rhythm of counsel work well enough, waking up before the sun rose to take breakfast at home and heading into town at six o’clock sharp. Paperwork was rough, and property disputes really had a way of opening one’s eyes to the distasteful side of folk, even the proper ones. Bilbo often wondered how his father could see these folk at their worst one morning, and then be able to sit down with them for a merry drink at pub that evening like it was just another day in Hobbiton. The young Baggins could hardly look some of them in the eye after half a day trying to explain that dumping the bath water on their neighbor’s head was not the proper channel to settle a livestock trade. 

Preserving people’s dignity was only half the battle. Once a week they held counsel in the back room of the Green Dragon to brief on the coming week’s tasks. Bilbo often had little to say during these meetings, preferring to write the minutes and report on the progress of his branch. The routine garnered him a scrutinizing look every once and a while from the older counsel members. Some not so subtly remarking on how ‘surprising to see a half Took put his head down and mind his manners’. 

He ignored them for most part, convincing himself he had more important things to worry about than the snide comments. Though on more than one occasion Bilbo found himself walking into the back room to sudden hushed whispers and leering eyes, only for the conversation to resume under breath when he left to purchase an ale. 

The topic arose one evening at supper as Bilbo sat mindlessly stirring his tea while his mother served the steamed vegetables. 

“You keep frowning like that and your face’ll freeze,” she commented.

He chuckled listlessly, turning himself properly to the table when she took her place across from him, “The gaffers like to talk, it seems,” he said. 

“Are they now,” she said with something of a knowing gleam in her eyes, “Anything new? Or is it the same humdrum they’ve been gossiping about for years?”

Bilbo shrugged, taking a bite of his roast chicken and chewing on it thoughtfully, “Can’t say,” he stated after he swallowed, “All I know is I’m a ‘half-Took with manners’ and that there’s something quite interesting to discuss when I’m not in the room.” 

“Something they don’t want you to know,” his mother scoffed. Bilbo stared wide-eyed at her, but nodded. Her expression had grown cold but the young hobbit could see there was a fire in her eyes. 

“I say, ask them straight up,” she stated bluntly, her face softening a bit as she sat up a little straighter in her seat. Bilbo observed her over the brim of his teacup, “Let them know you’re aware. And that you won’t take their gossip sitting down.”

Bilbo placed his teacup down with a quiet sigh. There was being assertive and then there was picking a fight. While he understood what his mother was suggesting his conscious felt he needed to broach the subject with a little more tact. These hobbits were his seniors and it would be impolite to take too aggressive of a stance with them. At the same time his mother was right. Let a rumor have its way for a day or three and then the whole town knows it. 

Oddly enough the hushed conversations ceased a day or two after he discussed it with his mother, of which Bilbo was thankful. Whether it was because of some outside influence, or the fact they would soon have their hands full as the Mid Autumn Festival was upon them, the young Baggins didn’t pay it much mind. At least they could resume the monotony of the meetings and he didn’t have to wonder what was being said behind his back. 

A month and half had passed since the counsel group departed. Letters were scarce, save for one from Old Took, which had arrived one misty morning and had the counsel room was abuzz when Bilbo arrived. It gave a brief detailing of the coronation ceremony and the state of politics abroad. According to the letter this crown prince held mediocre approval from his subjects, which could prove to be detrimental in trying times. The other side to that was his place on the throne would prove to be the catalyst to great, and good change. 

Bilbo was relieved just knowing the group made it to the White City and that his father was well and accounted for. He rather hoped they would have received a letter in the box at Bag End. His father had a way with painting such fantastical pictures of the things he’d seen and experienced. The political details didn’t interest Bilbo as much as he wanted to know what the White City was like. Did it shimmer in the sun like a cloud spire, and where its gates as tall as the mountains? Did the White Tree dance in the wind?

These were the details his father would be able to recount with vibrancy. And the ones he was eager to hear of.

Old Took’s letter also mentioned tentative plans for their return journey. Should the weather hold they would return to the Shire within a month. If not they would take the winter in Rivendell at Lord Elrond’s invitation. Hope would hold out that the group would make it back before the first snowfall.

The last of the bounties were harvested and stored away as the days shortened and the nights slowly began to cool. The forests of the Shire slowly began to drop their leaves and set the road toward Breeland ablaze in bright oranges, reds and yellows. Bilbo’s counsel duties lightened as the bustle of the Shire waned and he was able to return home early some afternoons. What time he was spared he helped his mother winterize the garden and prepare the canned preserves to be stored in the cellar. Some days he would take his notebook and quill out into the woods and find a comfortable place to sit and write. 

The peace of the autumn air, with the last birdsong and the musky smell of dirt and twigs, was a way of decompressing the stresses of counsel work. Where he sat against the trunk of an old oak tree his thoughts could flow freely and the words he scrawled onto the clean pages leapt and soared unhindered and uncouth. Some of it was coherent, but most of it not, for whom in the Shire could understand the itch to walk the unbeaten trails and meet the strange folk from beyond. 

It was one particularly warm afternoon that such strange folk found their way back into the Shire. Bilbo was just about to head back out of the woods, his notebook under arm and grass sprig hanging from his lips when a figure appeared at the end of the road. At first he thought he was just seeing things, but when the unmistakable silhouette of a tall man with a pointy hat came into the clear, a smile spread across the hobbit’s lips. 

“In need of directions?” Bilbo piped up as the figure drew closer. The man looked up from where his eyes were cast at the forest floor, squinting in the low golden light that bathed the pathway. 

Gandalf the Grey had returned to the Shire. 

“Do my eyes deceive me, or is that young master Baggins?” the wizard inquired, lifting his hand to shield his eyes from the low golden sun. 

Bilbo let out a breathy laugh as he approached, giving the man a polite smile and a curt greeting. The wizard looked about the same as Bilbo remembered him. The grey robe and hat were perhaps a bit more worn, but Gandalf’s appearance remained unchanged for the most part. The only thing new was the tall wooden stave the wizard used as a walking stick. It was fashioned out of a dark wood that extended almost to the wizard’s full height. At the top it twisted around like a gnarled old tree.

“My have you grown since last we met,” Gandalf commented, looking the halfling up and down, “And into a fine young gentlehobbit, if I should say so.”

Bilbo fidgeted bashfully, shuffling back and forth a bit, “What brings you to the Shire, Mr. Gandalf?” he asked, “Business perhaps?”

“Oh no, nothing like that,” the wizard shook his head, “Just happened to be passing back this way, thought I’d pay you and your mother a visit.”

Bilbo perked up at that. “I’m sure my mother would be delighted to see you. Father’s abroad now. Him, Old Took and some others went off for the coronation in Gondor.”

“Ah, yes,” the wizard hummed thoughtfully, “Of course, such an important ordeal too. Shame I didn’t run into them while I was there…”

Bilbo bit his lip disappointedly, “I was hoping you might have come across them if you’d been there,” he admitted, “We’ve heard so little here.”

Gandalf peered down at him kindly, “Then perhaps I could fill you in on some things. Which reminds me… There’s also something I was asked to give you…”

The wizard turned and dug through the bag at his side, pulling out an envelope and handing it to Bilbo. The paper was coarse and thick to the touch, as if it had been laid out and pressed by hand. The halfling took it with curiosity. His name was scrawled in the center of the envelope in black ink and there were a few blots where the ink had smeared, most likely from a hand accidently passing over it. The handwriting he didn’t recognize. The lettering was uneven and clearly written by someone who was still fairly unpracticed in the skill, although it was legible. 

“Who gave this to you?” Bilbo asked the wizard, turning the envelope over in his hand for any other clues. It couldn’t have been his father. The old gaffer wrote in a distinctive cursive lettering that Bilbo would have recognized immediately. 

“Well, I’m not really sure,” Gandalf pondered, “He caught me when I was leaving a tavern. Rather stocky fellow, somehow knew who you were…”

Bilbo frowned and turned the envelope back over and broke the seal to pull the letter out. A short paragraph was written in the center of the folded parchment in the same scrawling handwriting. The halfling barely started reading the first sentence when the name at the bottom caught his eye. 

To say he didn’t audibly gasp and almost drop the letter would have been a lie. His heart certainly skipped a beat and he could feel the telltale warmth rising in his cheeks when he shot a glance at the wizard before occupying himself with folding the letter and putting it back in the envelop. He completely missed the knowing twinkle in the old man’s eyes. 

“I-I’ll take a look at it later,” he stammered, tucking it away in his notebook and turning his gaze back to the wizard. The twinkle was gone. “Shall I show you to the house? I’m sure mother wouldn’t mind extending teatime.” 

The walk back to the house was quiet, save for the brief comments the wizard made about the land and the folk they passed. Bilbo found it difficult to follow the man’s words as he was distracted by the feelings that had suddenly filled his chest. 

He had come to expect the unexpected once in a while. The Shire wasn’t so sheltered that such oddity never occurred, and his work afforded him a plethora of surprises as it was. But to think that by some will of the world, a letter bearing that five letter name would make it to his hands and awake these feelings from their dormancy; well, that _was_ unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hnngghhrr_ that was a BEAR to work through but it's done. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading. This is a long chapter, and a lot happens, but I think it'll pay off.
> 
> (PS: The tune Bofur plays, I imagine it sounding a bit like that oboe solo what plays in BOTFA when they finally enter Erebor.)


	3. Farewell

The kitchen was the liveliest it had been in a while. Gandalf ended up staying for supper as well, Bilbo’s mother insisting that the wizard not take to the road on an empty stomach. For the occasion she made her signature ham and vegetable pie with herb crust and white cheese filling. Warm biscuits with butter and honey were served on the size and they even uncorked one of the aged red wines. Somewhere in the preparation she managed to rope the wizard into slicing fruit for the dessert, much to Bilbo’s amusement. Leave it to his mother to have the fire to wrangle a wizard into domestic tasks. 

The food was plated and served in merriment and tales of abroad. The old wizard took good-heartedly to Bilbo’s inquiries of the world outside the Shire. His keen eye for the tiny details where what intrigued the halfling the most. Perhaps it was Gandalf’s connection to magic that made him so attuned to the world around him, like the slight shift of the tiniest grain of sand that sends the side of the dune cascading down. 

It gripped Bilbo with a pang of wanderlust. What it would be to see the snowcapped peaks of the Misty Mountains where they towered deep into the clouds. Or hear the thundering of a thousand horses as they galloped across the windswept plains of the Gap of Rohan like water over rock.

“What of the coronation?” Bilbo asked, leaning up against the edge of the table, teacup secured snuggly between his hands. The wizard passed wrinkled hand over his empty plate, a few crumbs dropping onto the surface. 

“A long anticipated even,” Gandalf began, folding his arms comfortably in his lap, “especially among the menfolk. Quite a formal affair, with attendance from as far south as Harad.”

“I knew Gondor’s politics to be of great importance,” Bilbo’s mother said from the oven where she was checking the scones, “but to realize it extends so far is impressive.”

The wizard hummed agreeably, “It is. Being the central hub between the east and west... certainly stirred up all sorts of activity.” 

“Old Took’s letter mentioned something like mixed sentiment around the crown prince,” Bilbo added, taking a brief sip of his tea, “Did… you sense anything of that sort while you were there?”

The wizard shifted in his seat, “I did not sense anything overtly concerning from this prince. He is... perhaps a bit bold and quick to action. But that is not uncommon in young rulers.”

Bilbo hummed thoughtfully.

“When heirs or heiresses rise into power it can cause ‘disruptions’ sometimes. To take a crown means a lifelong commitment to governance. Some rulers take to it better than others.”

“I can see why that might cause some unrest,” the halfling replied. 

Hobbits were quick to judge, but not so much to action unless instinct kicked in. Then again, the Shire was just a small corner of the world and Gondor’s power and influence was so much more. The decisions of a king with that much power… It would be like if the Thain decided everything for everyone within the Shire’s borders without regard to how anyone felt. The thought was rather horrifying. 

“What happens when a king becomes unpopular to his subjects?” Bilbo asked. Surely they had a way of checking power. 

The grey wizard stroked his beard in thoughtful contemplation. “That is an astute question,” he began, “It can vary from kingdom to kingdom. In the case of Gondor, all kings have a steward who advises them. They are a voice for the people, so to speak. If a king is not listening to his people the steward can request a counsel to be summoned.”

“What kind of counsel?”

“Ideally it would be a summoning of the kingdom’s court,” Gandalf explained, “In other cases outside influence is needed.”

“Like with you?”

The grey wizard nodded, “It’s a messy business redrawing power, Bilbo Baggins. It is not something desirable, and certainly not to be taken lightly.”

They took dessert an hour or so after supper, and after Bilbo urged his mother and Gandalf to rest in the den while he finished cleaning the dishes. The sun had long since set behind the horizon and the wizard would be off soon so any time they could spend was precious time.

Bilbo left the two to their conversation and stepped out to check the post box one last time. The air was bitter cold and bit into his skin as he made his way down the stone steps to the gate. His breath came out in small puffs and somewhere on the breeze he could smell frost. Above him the stars winked against the dark blue blanket of night. 

The box was empty, as he expected, so he took a moment to himself, pulling his coat closer around his body and sitting upon the bench by the gate. Bilbo swept his gaze over the darkened hills to the tiny golden circles of the smails beyond. From out here they looked so cozy and warm. He threw a sparing glance back up toward the door of Bag End before slipping his hand into his pocket and pulling out the letter. 

That strange sensation spread up from his stomach into his chest and down his arms, making his hands shake slightly. He shivered as the gooseflesh crept up his neck. 

“It’s the cold…” he convinced himself, “It’s just the cold.” 

He opened the letter and held it close to the candle beside him. 

_Dear Bilbo,_

_I hope life in the shire is good and you are in good health. It has been a long time, I do not know if you will remember me—_

He leaned back against the back of the bench and let out a breathy chuckle. It was like he was back on that sandy bank in the sunlight. 

_I hope you forgive my writing, I am still learning._

Bilbo reread the last line again, realization dawning on him. He wasn’t sure if he should blame it on childhood naiveté but he certainly felt like a fool for not considering that some people may not have received the same education in reading and writing that he got. 

The halfling stared back down at the letter. How long had the dwarf wondered what was written on those pages? 

_I wanted to give you this gift. It seemed fitting as a return for the songs you wrote. I hope it fits your fancy._

_Good health to you,  
Bofur_

“Dear Bofur…” he whispered as he traced over the scrawled handwriting. How could he not remember those bright eyes and that ringing laughter? 

Bilbo set the letter aside and gently ran his fingers along the bottom of the envelope. Sure enough there was something small tucked into one of the corners. He was surprised it hadn’t fallen out. He carefully shook the paper and the object rolled out onto his palm. It was a small cylindrical band of metal made of what looked to be silver. On its polished surface he could see engravings fashioned into patterned geometrical shapes along the edges. As he held it closer to the candle light the images engraved into the center most section of the bead became clearer. 

It looked something like a smial. 

For something so small it was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever laid eyes on. Bilbo turned the bead in the candlelight, admiring each and every detail of the etching. He would have to sew the bead to something, perhaps one of his shirts, or a handkerchief. Maybe he could thread it on twine and wear it on his wrist. Wherever it ended up, he wanted to be able to look upon it and to cherish it. 

The halfling tucked the bead and the letter carefully back into the envelope and held them preciously in his lap. He thought it a good idea to write the dwarf back, but he was uncertain where he would send it. There was no address on the envelope or on the letter and Gandalf had mentioned he ran into Bofur at a tavern. He supposed he could send a letter with the wizard but that felt a little impolite. Perhaps he would meet the dwarf again, and he could give his thanks in person. That was a better idea.

Bilbo sighed, his lips spreading into an elated smile as he turned his gaze to the stars. For the first time in a while he hummed that soulful tune and thought again of the dwarf with the kind smile. 

Winter bore down on the Shire like a harsh gale. Frost turned the grass stiff and tendrils of mist crept between the swells of the hills. A fortnight had passed since Gandalf’s visit and folks still whispered about it as though it were an ill omen. Bilbo did his best to ignore the gossip. Early freezes weren’t so uncommon, the Shire had its fair share of unsavory weather before so why would now be any different? If they wanted to blame the weather on the wizard, so bit it.

What worried the halfling more was the feeling of being watched. He never caught people outright staring but the unnerving hush that seemed to seep into the air around him was noticeable. It started with his greetings being met with short responses. The bartender in the Green Dragon regarded him with a curt nod but nothing more. The counsel meetings were as straightforward as they’d always been but the hushed conversations began again. When Bilbo addressed this with the gaffers one morning they brushed it off, saying he need not worry about business that wasn’t his own. 

The arrival of a second letter from Old Took only seemed to make the matters worse. When Bilbo entered the counsel room one particularly snowy morning he found one of the Bracegridle lads talking excitedly over the contents of the letter. They were huddled at the head of the table and beckoned Bilbo over to read with them. None of the gaffers had made it in yet, and Bilbo had half a mind to scold the others for opening the mail, but upon hearing that the company had turned east toward Rivendell the thought escaped him. 

“When was it sent?” he asked, leaning over the table to see if there was a postmark anywhere on the envelope.

“Five days ago,” the Bracegridle lad piped up, handing the letter to Bilbo. He took it and quickly skimmed the contents. If the weather along the Greenway was anything like it had been in the Shire it would have hindered their travel greatly. 

“If this is from five days ago, they’ll be long off the Greenway by now,” another lad spoke.

Bilbo swallowed thickly, a cold dread setting in his stomach. He all but dropped the letter on the table and made to put his jacket on when one of the gaffers walked in through the doorway. 

“What’s going on here?” the old hobbit scrutinized, looking at the huddled group before turning his eyes to Bilbo, who had one arm up his jacket sleeve, “And where do you think you’re going?”

There was a jumble of responses before the Bracegridle lad spoke up about the letter. A look of surprise crossed the old hobbits face as he pushed past Bilbo and took up the letter. Somewhere in the commotion of bodies moving away from the table and to their respective chairs Bilbo’s gaze caught with the old gaffer. He couldn’t describe what it was he saw in the old hobbit’s eyes but it was cold and unwelcoming. 

All the talk in Hobbiton from then on centered on the news of the letter and even more so than before Bilbo could feel the stares boring into his back. The whispers of ill omen shifted and on more than one occasion Bilbo found himself on the receiving end of people’s frustrations. An oppressive weight hung in the air at each counsel meeting, people gave him a wide berth as he walked by and some merchants even refused to touch his coin. 

“How do you do it?” he asked his mother one evening, as they were settled in the den. He sat in the chair across from her, his notebook and quill forgotten on the table beside him. He’d drawn his knees up to his chest and had taken to staring into the orange light. If one didn’t know better they’d thought him a child. 

“Dealing with the ill met suspicion,” she stated, placing a marker between the pages of her book before setting it aside, “The lingering stares...”

Bilbo glanced over at her and nodded. She sat properly against the backrest of the armchair, her hands folded upon the wool throw blanket she had drawn over her lap. The firelight illuminated the silver streaks in her hair like sunlight on stone, and the shadows cast upon her face accentuated the wrinkles that began to form along her eyes and cheeks. Though time and old age would change her, Bilbo could still see the confident, fiery hobbitess he always knew. 

A log sifted, sending sparks up from the simmering coals. 

His mother fixed him with a sympathetic smile, beckoning him over with an outstretched hand. The halfling made his way to her side and knelt down on the rug next to her feet. He felt small again, resting his head on her knee and letting her stroke her fingers through his curls. 

“I will not say it is easy,” she replied softly, “You will have to walk through valleys and climb over mountains. It will be difficult, and you’ll want to give up.” 

Bilbo turned his gaze to hers. There was a sadness in her eyes he hadn’t seen before, like an old wound whose ache resurfaced even though the scar had long since disappeared.

“Sometimes the best you can do is decide whether you’re going to batter your feet on the long path, or scar your hands to climb over the peak.”

Warm fires and thick blankets seemed all that could bring comfort as the ice and snow closed in around them. Bilbo ceased attending the meetings for the time being as powder built up around the smials to the point where one couldn’t take three steps before being waist deep in the stuff. He busied himself with work around the house, watering plants and helping his mother with dusting or cooking. 

The anxiety in his gut eased a bit though the more it snowed the more his worry grew for his father. 

While she didn’t show it often Bilbo could tell the worry was beginning to weigh on his mother as well. Every now and then her mood swayed. Sometimes it came in the form of irritation and he’d need to give her space, other times it came in the form of lethargy or tears. In these moments he did his best to keep her spirits up, often urging her to rest by the hearth while he read some of the poems and short stories he’d written. 

On one occasion he found her going through the trunk that sat at the end of her bed. It was a strange old thing, clearly not Shire made if for the long bands of metal that braced the lid and the angular studs. As long as he could remember it remained under lock and key. It was an odd sight seeing it open. 

“What’s all this?” he asked, stepping slowly up to the bed and gazing over the items spread out on the linen. She looked a bit startled at his approach, turning abruptly at his voice but relaxing when she saw it was him. Bilbo regarded it as nothing more than a bit of nerves from exhaustion. 

A green cloak lay neatly next to what looked like a pair of leather bracers. There was also a long slender item wrapped in a cloth. 

“Just some old keepsakes,” she replied, picking up the item wrapped in cloth. She undid the ties and uncovered a sword sheathed in a smooth leather scabbard. Bilbo stared at it in wonder. 

The locket angled down to one edge and had several distinct ridges layered over each other. The chape was of a similar metal although the inner layer swooped up like a curled fern. The sword itself was elegant and unlike anything he’d seen. The blade seemed to ring as it was unsheathed It’s edges curved outward from the cross-guard and came to a fine point. Along the blade a similar fern-like engraving lay etched in the surface. 

She held it out to him. Bilbo took it gently, it was a lot lighter than it looked and fit well in his hands. The hilt was smooth but with enough grip that it didn’t feel like it would slip from his fingers. 

“What is the engraving?” he asked. He hadn’t noticed it before but upon closer inspection it looked to be some form of Elvish. 

“I knew at one time,” she sighed, “Can’t recall it now.” 

He balanced the blade in his hand and gave it a few slow swings just to hear the clean swish of the edge through the air. 

“It’s beautiful,” he mused, carefully replacing it in its scabbard before handing it back to his mother. 

“One day this will go to you,” she said, wrapping the sword up and placing it in the trunk, “And I hope you’ll be able to take it on your own adventure.” 

It would be one grey morning where the snow had melted down a bit that the young Baggins would awake to hear unfamiliar voices drifting in from the den. Upon investigation he would find two strange men standing in the foyer, their dark green cloaks and the bows slung over their backs marking them as rangers. Where they from he would not know as his attention would be drawn to his mother’s voice.

She was in the kitchen wrapping half a loaf of bread and a few apples into a cloth before tucking them away in a pack next to her. Bilbo could see she had donned her traveling petticoat, it was the blue one she wore the first time she took him to Tuckborough. 

“Bilbo dear, you’re awake,” she said, giving him a quick smile before hurrying down the hallway to her bedroom.

“Mother? What’s going on?” Bilbo followed after her, “Who are those men?”

“Acquaintances, from Bree,” she replied, throwing open the chest and pulling out the same green cloak and the sword they’d been looking at the night before. Bilbo watched with puzzlement as she drew the cloak over her shoulders and strapped the blade about her waist. 

“I’ve left instructions on the mantle,” she continued, moving over to the vanity on her side of the room and doing up her hair in a braid, “I shouldn’t be gone more than a couple weeks.”

“Wait— what?!” Bilbo snapped out of his confused daze, “Where are you going—?”

“I regret for this to come so sudden on you, I was unsure how to tell you,” she confessed, “But I must do this.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to say something but the words failed him. Confusion and a bit of anger boiled in his chest. He didn’t understand. 

“Must do what?!” he said rather harshly, taking a hold of her arm before she could slip by him into the hallway. She gazed at him apologetically.

“I’m sorry…” she took his hands in hers, “After hearing the news that the company would be turning to Rivendell I… I couldn’t bear the thought of not knowing where they were.” 

Bilbo found it hard to swallow. 

“I arranged a small party to find them,” she explained, “If goes well, at least they would have some protection as they traveled.”

Bilbo bit his lip and cast his eyes to where their hands were clasped. The confusion and anger all but dissipated and he was left with a hard knot in his chest instead. The gentle caress of his mother’s hand against his cheek was both comforting and fleeting. 

“I-I can’t…” his voice wavered, “Not without…” 

His mother pulled his forehead to rest against hers.

“My dear, sweet Bilbo,” She sighed, “You’ve grown so much, and become someone both your father and I couldn’t be more proud of.”

He couldn’t stop the wetness that welled up in his eyes. Her words felt like goodbye. And deep down he knew the world may have this be so, but he hoped the dread he felt was only a feeling. 

“This uncertainty will not linger,” she reassured, “Just as the first seeds of spring weathered beneath the snow and grow into strong trees, I am sure you will endure.”

He held onto her hands as long as he could, memorizing their texture and their warmth. And when the time came to let go he suffered the bitter wind and frozen earth until they disappeared over the far, white hills. 

It would not be until the first thaw that strangers on horseback would return to Hobbiton, bearing with them three of the seven to have left. That the fires of Bag End would no longer hold the warmth they once had. That the door to the study would remain closed and the letter on the mantel would remain unopened. 

It would not be until a few years later, when a grey wizard came knocking on the round green door, that he would bury his sorrow and step back into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a while to write and I apologize for any glaring mistakes or if it seems rushed (and that it's kinda sad). I needed to get Bilbo from point A to point B without losing the story to superfluous details that didn't matter. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading! Let me know what you think.


	4. What's Past is Present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this was an interesting chapter to work through.
> 
> I will give a few warnings though, the end of this chapter does have a bit of a heavy themes centered around ostracization and self worth so if that is in anyway triggering please proceed with care and caution. I am going to adjust the tags a bit as well for this.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!

On any other occasion he might have thought finding Gandalf the Grey on his front doorstep a delightful meeting. Several seasons had passed and the Shire was coming into another bountiful spring. The wounds of that fell winter were on the mend and such an encounter might call for wine and home cooked food. As it was the halfling was rather reserved in his greeting, inviting the wizard in for tea, nonetheless, but remaining distant.

“What brings you here, Gandalf?”

The question was simple, but Bilbo could see that the wizard understood there was more being requested than what was asked at face value. It was not lost on either of them that the brightness of Bag End had faded as of late and the wizard’s presence begged the question of whether this dimness was the reason for his return.

“It has been a long while, Bilbo Baggins,” the wizard began. There was a sorrow in his old blue eyes, only made more haggard by the deep wrinkles that lined his face. 

The halfling worried his hands around his cup of tea, the warmth seeping into his palms though he could not feel it.

“I suppose it has…” he responded distantly. Part of him wanted to skip past the pleasantries but the delicacy the wizard was taking around the situation would make his eagerness seem hostile, and that was not what the halfling wanted. It was just that the heaviness of the air over the table was becoming unbearable. 

“I had hoped to come to you under happier circumstances,” he continued carefully. Bilbo forced a weak smile, swallowing down the hard lump that had formed in the back of his throat. He thought to say something but the words wouldn’t come to him. 

The wizard fixed him with a sympathetic look, “I am truly sorry.”

The halfling took a deep breath and shook his head, “They wouldn’t want me to dwell on it...” he started, casting his gaze to the sun filled window. The wizard hummed lowly in acknowledgement. Outside a butterfly fluttered fickly between the blossoms of the flower boxes and somewhere a cricket chirped in the foliage.

“I suppose they would not,” the wizard responded quietly, taking a sip of his tea. Bilbo’s gaze softened. “But I do not think they would wish you to bury your sorrow.” 

The halfling pursed his lips and returned his attention to the table. 

“Why are you here, Gandalf?” he asked again. 

The old grey wizard sat up a little straighter in his chair. Bilbo shifted a bit in place but did not break his gaze from the wizard’s.

“Matters abroad have begun to move once again,” the wizard stated, “to this east, this time.” 

Bilbo righted his shoulders a bit, his mouth falling open in recognition.

“A coronation..." he replied knowingly.

The wizard nodded.

Bilbo stared up at the old man, unsure of what he was feeling in that moment. Part of him was puzzled as to why the wizard would come to him with such information. On the other hand, it was irritating. 

“You’re going to have to look elsewhere,” the halfling said, leaning his arms back on the table. The wizard raised an eyebrow at him. 

“That or you’ll have to take it up with Old Took,” Bilbo continued as he stood to remove the empty plates from the table, “Though he’s not much for visitors these days.”

“And why should I look elsewhere?” 

Bilbo gave a heavy sigh, shuffling the plates into the sink and turning on the tap. He really didn’t have time for this. 

“It’s not something we do anymore,” he stated bluntly. 

He couldn’t see the wizard’s expression but the air about the room told him enough that the old man was rather dumbfounded, if a bit skeptical of the halfling’s claim. 

“And what is it that you do?” the wizard inquired.

Bilbo dropped the rag he was using to scrub the dishes against the side of the sink and turned to the wizard. Whatever he was going to say died on his lips before he could say it. This wasn’t a question of Hobbiton, or the Shire.  
Bilbo slumped back against the sink and stared down at the tile under his feet, suddenly at a loss for what to think. For so long he’d thrown himself into the mundane of early mornings and late evenings, not stopping once to think of it. It was all just business as usual.

“I…” Even now he couldn’t find the words to describe it. 

He saw the wizard move out of the corner of his vision. 

“I don’t have an answer,” he confessed finally. 

Whatever judgment he thought he’d find in the old wizard’s eyes was not there. Instead there was sympathy and sadness. 

“This darkness in your heart has lingered for long enough,” the wizard murmured, beckoning Bilbo back to his seat at the table. The halfling pushed off the sink and took up his spot again. The odd aching sensation he’d felt so often since that day returned to fester in the center of his palms. 

“I refuse to believe that bright young hobbit I met many years ago is gone,” Gandalf continued, leaning forward on the table, his eyes no longer sullen, but alight with life and perhaps hope. 

“Take up your mother’s work again,” the wizard urged, “Renew the old bonds.”

Bilbo swallowed thickly. There was an indescribable quickening of his heart at the wizard’s words. Images of that warm spring day flashed across his vision. The smell of the grass and the trees, the babbling brook and the faint melody of a flute rushed back to the forefront of his mind. 

_‘Step back into the light, dear Bilbo’_

Bilbo blinked and flicked his gaze quickly about the room. The voice was unmistakable, and he was sure he wasn’t just imagining it. How could he when he remembered her voice so distinctly? He looked to Gandalf for confirmation but the wizard made no indication he had heard it. 

The halfling wrung his hands and pull himself back to the wizard’s words. 

“I will give it some thought,” he concluded, “But I cannot guarantee anything.”

“So be it,” the wizard responded agreeably, “I am to depart in seven day’s time. I do hope I will have your company.”

\--

Coming to a decision was easier said than done, and the more Bilbo thought about it the more distracted he became. He initially thought he’d give himself a day to sit on the topic before declining the wizard, but fate would have it that Gandalf’s presence in the Shire would cause a stir. 

“It’s ill omen, it is,” the fishmonger gossiped, “Nothing but trouble those wizards bring.” 

“I seen him up the path to Bag End too. A strange place that smial has become.”

“That Baggins boy has got his hands in the wrong pot again. What good will that bring?”

Bilbo inwardly groaned and ducked his way through the market. This was exactly what he didn’t want to happen. It had been difficult enough to mend his rapport within Hobbiton after the fell winter, and to have that work slowly chipped away was inconvenient and irritating. 

Not to mention the wizard was being less than discreet about his appearance in the tiny town. Plotting around like he was just in some village of the menfolk asking questions, and getting answers, completely unperturbed by the long stares and strange looks cast his direction. The halfling couldn’t help the smidgen of envy that arose inside him at the thought. What he would give to walk through the world so unbothered by the opinions of others.

“Three gold, if you will, Mr. Baggins.”

The coin was all but fumbled into the hands of the merchant as Bilbo placed his purchase in his basket and bid them a hasty ‘good day’. He could see Gandalf making his way along the western pathway that led around the pond toward the town center. While he was not opposed to conversing with the wizard if he could avoid interaction in public, it was all the better. 

Bilbo shuffled his way to the eastern side of the market and ducked back behind a few of the stalls. From here he could cut across the field under the party tree and make his way up to Bag End. 

“Bilbo! There you are!”

The voice both startled him and made him internally groan. It was a long shot trying to make it out of the market without being seen though it relieved him a bit when he turned and found it wasn’t the wizard who had called out to him.

“Good day, Drogo,” Bilbo responded straightening himself with a polite smile as his cousin hurried up to him. A spirited young lad with dark hair and clear blue eyes, Drogo was a distant cousin on his father’s side, not lacking in looks or intellect and sharp as a whip. 

“You off somewhere?” the lad asked cheerfully. Bilbo motioned to his basket, to which Drogo nodded with approval and let Bilbo herd him out of the market and onto the pathway up the hill. 

“I saw the wizard today” he explained, “Just out past the lower fields, cloak and all. Wonder what business he was up to?”

Bilbo chortled dryly, “It hardly matters. He could throw a stick into the creek and it’d be the talk for days.”

“Suppose you’re right. The gaffers would get a stir out of that wouldn’t they,” Drogo chuckled, hunching over a bit and scrunching his face up into a scowl, “ _Thrown a curse on us he has! Nasty business those wizards!_ ” 

Bilbo snorted at the impersonation, glancing quickly over his shoulder to make sure they’d put some distance between themselves and the market. To his astonishment he couldn’t find Gandalf anywhere. Not near the pond or the Green Dragon. Odd indeed. 

“Everything alright, Bilbo?” Drogo’s voice pulled him away from his search.

“O-oh, yes, quite!” Bilbo lied, though it was clear his cousin wasn’t falling for the façade if the way the lad tilted his head to the side with a raised eyebrow was any indication. 

Bilbo let out a huffed sigh, deflating a bit, “I don’t suppose there’s a point in keeping it from you. But over lunch.” 

“Very well then,” Drogo replied agreeably. 

By the time they reached the green door the sun was high enough to where its rays stretched deeply onto the land, pulling the moisture up from the soil and filling the air with the smell of earth. Along the fence crickets chirped cautiously in the tall green grass and a few chickadees sang as they picked away at the bird feeder just beyond the kitchen window. 

To Bilbo’s relief Drogo held off any questions until they’d sat down at the kitchen table with a full meal of roast chicken, sautéed potatoes and steamed vegetables. A pot of honey and fresh sliced bread sat temptingly between them as they waited for the kettle to boil. 

“So, this wizard” Drogo began, “He wants you to go to a coronation?” 

Bilbo nodded, “You’re probably too young to remember, but my father and mother’s work dealt a lot with the big folk who live outside the Shire.”

Drogo hummed through a mouthful of potato but made no comment as Bilbo brought over the teakettle and filled the pot with the boiling liquid. He found some relief in telling his cousin this, and perhaps the lad could impart some advice. Not many within Hobbiton were found to be so open-minded when it came to matters outside of routine, it seemed. Bilbo was certainly guilty of that as much as anyone. Though part of him felt that same wish for wonder that held such a strong sway over his mind when he knew nothing of the world. And perhaps Drogo held some of that same wonder too. 

“Gandalf believes that the work they did—that my mother did—should continue,” Bilbo concluded, “That _I_ should continue it.”

“Well, that’s a request, isn’t it,” Drogo commented, shuffling the last few of his vegetables into his mouth. Bilbo shrugged and held his tea close. The last of the tealeaves had sunk to the bottom of his cup and left the liquid the perfect shade of brown. He took a small sip, letting the warmth travel down his throat and spread out into his chest. 

“I can’t just go off on this venture,” he confessed, wringing his hands about his tea, “Not like the wizard thinks I can.”

The room fell silent for a beat. The crackling of the hearth and the faint sounds though the open window were all that could be heard. 

“But you want to,” Drogo said into the silence. 

Bilbo stared back at him. Drogo smiled kindly, offering a slice of bread with butter and honey. He took it and set it before himself, though his mind was a flurry of thoughts and emotions. Whatever he was going to say died on his tongue before he had the courage to say it. 

“You want to but you’re not sure how,” Drogo continued, “If it’s any help, my ma always told me ‘it can’t hurt to dip a toe into the water, you can always pull your foot back’”.

Bilbo let a smile cross his lips and took a small bite of his bread. 

\--

He should have expected to see the wizard on his front porch the following day but as chance would have it the encounter was unexpected enough that Bilbo practically tumbled back into the foyer in surprise.

“Good morning, Gandalf,” he greeted begrudgingly as he pulled himself off the tile floor and brushed his coat of any dust. The wizard beamed down at him.

“Good morning, dear lad. Off to speak with the Thane?”

He should have expected. 

“Well, yes…” Bilbo started hesitantly. Of all days, it had to be today that the wizard decided to make his appearance again. He was off to see the Thane, indeed, but it was more like the Thane _and_ the counsel.

“Excellent,” the wizard exclaimed, “I thought it might be beneficial if I accompany you and impart some information about your venture. I’ve found the more one knows, the more open they might be to an idea.”

“Or not,” Bilbo stared up at the wizard in disbelief. In his gut he knew this was more likely to end up sour regardless of intentions, and he could see there was no arguing with the spark in the wizard’s eyes. 

“Gandalf, I really think it would be best if you waited here—” the halfling tried. 

“Nonsense! I’m here to support you,” Gandalf reassured, the wizard puffing himself up to full size, “You’re going to need it.”

Bilbo wasn’t sure whether to take that as an insult or a compliment and quite frankly he was beyond caring now. 

“Save me from the stubbornness of wizards…” he mumbled to himself as he led Gandalf down the hill. 

\--

If he could command the ground to open up and swallow him whole he would have done so already. It was bad enough that every hobbit in Hobbiton stopped to watch them as they passed. From the end of Bagshot Row down to the stone bridge, farmers and gardeners and washerwomen alike stopped to gawk. Even more so were the looks on every gaffer’s face when Bilbo walked through the door of the backroom with Gandalf in tow. 

“What’s the meaning of this?” one of the gaffer’s spoke up.

Bilbo smiled nervously, wiping his palms on his jacket before clearing his throat. 

“I… uh… in light of the meeting today,” he began, “I thought… it might be _polite_ to have Gandalf attend as well.”

“Do pardon my intrusion,” Gandalf chimed in. 

“It an intrusion, alright,” another gaffer mumbled, “What business does a wizard have in the Shire? Haven’t seen your likes around these parts for years.”

“I here simply to impart business with young master Baggins here,” Gandalf explained, “He has made it known to me that permission must be granted for business regarding outside relations”

“What’s this business you speak of? Mr. Baggins has not come to us with any news of ‘business’”

Bilbo fidgeted uncomfortably where he stood as the room slowly broke into mumbled chatter. He’d meant to bring the coronation up under better circumstances but it would seem that would no longer be possible. With how thick the tension was in the room he couldn’t see any way this would end on a good note. Not for him, that was for certain. 

“It matters not.”

Bilbo lifted his eyes to the far end of the table. Old Took sat at the head, dressed in the same dark green vest and brown overcoat he often wore to such gatherings. His eyes were weary but they bored down on the halfling and wizard with scrutiny. 

“I know what business you wish of Mr. Baggins,” the old hobbit began, “It has always been the same. Even with his parents.”

Bilbo swallowed thickly. It was far too quiet and yet the thumping of his heart was so loud in his ears that he was sure everyone would hear it. The clamminess in his hands no longer ran cold, and he could feel anger stirring in his chest. 

“Then you know well, Thane Took,” Gandalf said, “I suspect from personal experience.”

The old hobbit fixed the wizard with an ill-tempered look. “What business of the outside world is no worry of ours, and won’t ever be,” he stated, turning his attention to Bilbo.

“If you choose to take this venture Mr. Baggins, we will not stop you,” Old Took proclaimed, “But know that your departure will be permanent.” 

If he could command the ground to open up and swallow him whole he would have done so. He’d bury himself away from the scrutiny and ill-favored stares, the whispers and the rumors. And perhaps his disappearance would be a relief from pain and uncertainty. Perhaps old wounds could finally heal. 

Bilbo didn’t hear Gandalf pardon himself from the room, or hear Old Took adjourn the meeting. All he knew was he needed to be away, and alone. 

It was enough for one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TLDR: I realize this chap is kinda dialogue heavy too. Do forgive me.


	5. Ever On and On

The following days were not more than a blur. Bilbo occupied himself with chores and cooking, occasionally wondering out beyond the borders of Hobbiton and into the forest. He brought his journal with him, though he found himself unable to write, resolving instead to watch the shadows of the trees on the grass and listen to the birds in the branches above him. A few times he found himself waist deep in the creek that ran south from the forests of Overhill with no recollection of wading out. More than once he considered laying himself into the cold and letting the current carry him away. How easy it could be to just submit to the river. These thoughts intruded into his mind in the dark hours of the night when he awoke from fitful slumber and he knew not what to do but bury them.

Drogo visited him often. Mainly to check in, occasionally bringing some form of baked good that they’d eat silently in the garden or at the kitchen table. Bilbo knew his cousin was worried about him. He could sense the lad’s eyes on him whenever he turned away or made some darkly humorous comment at his own expense. The lad never outright made his concerns known, until one day when Bilbo was meandering his garden after an early morning of planting.

He was surprised to find Drogo on his front step, walking stick and hand and small pack on his shoulders. Bilbo greeted him as usual, but when Drogo did not respond he stopped and studied the lad.

“Everything alright?” he asked, curiously.

The lad chortled, “Everything’s right by me. What about you?”

Bilbo blinked dumbly at the question. As far as he was concerned he was fine, else he’d not be out in the garden on this sunny day.

“I know not everything is what it seems with you,” Drogo said again, though his demeanor softened. Bilbo made to protest but Drogo stopped him before he could say.

“Get your coat and walking stick,” the lad urged, herding Bilbo into Bag End. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Bilbo sputtered as his trowel was taken and set on the footstool by the door. His gloves were all but tossed into the foyer as Drogo then set about finding Bilbo’s coat and walking stick.

“There’s something I want to show you,” he called from the hallway finally. 

Bilbo scratched his head in puzzlement but didn’t push the question any further. The day was till fairly new as he followed Drogo out the front gate and down the road. They set a brisk pace, turning north after the fork and into the woods of Overhill. Bilbo watched after his cousin as they traversed to and fro between the trees and up the little rock outcrops that sprung up just off the beaten path. Once the sun set high in the sky they stopped for a moment to drink from a babbling brook and rest. 

“So... What was it you wanted to show me?” Bilbo asked as they smoked easily in the shade of an old oak. 

Drogo shook his head, “Not there yet.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow suspiciously at his cousin, “Alright then,” he said matter-of-fact, “A secret it is.”

They began the walk again after a bit though this time Drogo set an even faster pace that Bilbo had to jog up to him a couple times to keep up. At one point Drogo halted and glanced around the pathway as if searching for something. Bilbo inquired as to why they stopped but Drogo did not answer. Instead the lad suddenly stepped off the path and began racing up the adjacent hill. 

“Drogo!” Bilbo called after him. 

The hill wasn’t steep per se, but the rock outcroppings and underbrush made the climb a bit of a hassle as Bilbo had to concentrate on his footing while keeping an eye on his cousin. He called out again after carefully climbing his way over a fallen log, resting against the old wood to catch his breath.

“This way!” he heard his cousin’s return shout. 

Bilbo heaved a sigh and picked up his walking stick again, muttering something about having imps for relatives though he couldn’t help smiling at the thought. By the time he made it to the top of the hill he found his cousin half way up the branches of a tree.

“Goodness Drogo, what are you doing up there?” he huffed, trudging over to the tree and setting his walking stick up against the trunk. 

“Up here, Bilbo,” Drogo urged, pointing up into the treetop. 

Bilbo inwardly groaned but followed his cousin anyway. His legs burned a bit as he strained to keep his footing though the climb up into the branches wasn’t so difficult. The smell of the bark and the leaves and the bit of dew that hung in the tiny pockets on the branches was refreshing. A few birds twittered about around them and once they reached the very tip-top the sun swept over them as they broke the tree line.

The warm rays against his face were a welcome feeling, and the fragrant spring air filled him with ease and calm. The sky seemed liked it stretched on forever, dotted with giant puffy clouds as far as he could see. Just to the south he could see the green hills of Hobbiton, and to the west the craggy mountains that marked the borders of the Shire. To the east the land opened up and he could see far green forests. 

“Quite a sight, isn’t it,” Drogo spoke in awe.

“Yes, it is,” Bilbo replied thoughtfully, breathing in the free air. He’d quite forgotten this feeling. 

“Thank you, Drogo,” he said finally, turning to his cousin with an appreciative smile, “I quite needed that, I think.”

Drogo nodded in return. How long the two sat gazing out over the land neither know or cared. All that mattered was the now, and lunch, of course. Though time stopped again, and Bilbo once again felt that pang of wanderlust that gripped his heart so long ago. 

There was something brighter about the way the early morning sunlight flooded over the green hills. The air was still and quiet, even when the birdsong rose from the fields and the mist crept back with the shrinking shadows of dawn. If the old rooster down the path had already sang his morning jig then the sparse activity of Hobbiton at this hour could be attributed to a spring recess.

The air of Bag End also seemed lighter. The browns and yellows of the den shone radiant where they had been muted for so long, as though the golden rays that poured through the windows was beckoning the smial out of hibernation. 

Five days ago he might have thought this all a fever dream, but the letters stacked in a neat pile on the table, and his pack resting against the doorframe of his bedroom indicated otherwise. There was sense of relief in the whole venture. And while this was not how Bilbo expected his week to play out there was a bit of comfort in knowing that he was, at least, picking himself up off the floor. 

The kettle whistled over the hearth as Bilbo removed the biscuits from the oven and plated them near the window to cool. Drogo would be awake soon and he wanted to make sure his cousin was set with all the necessary information to care for the house. What solitary time he had he fussed himself with last minute chores.

His anxious ambling brought him to a stop in front of the study. It was almost as if it hadn’t existed until this very moment, like an old heirloom long since forgotten until it was uncovered from the dusty attic. Bilbo had half a mind to just move on from it. There was already enough he had to worry about this morning and diving head first into the past wasn’t part of it. 

“Drogo will take good care of you, I know it,” he spoke, “He’s a good lad.”

The words sounded foolish now that they hung the air around him and he didn’t even try to rationalize why he said them. The halfling rubbed his brow with a cynical chortle.

“And here I am talking to a door,” he exhaled dryly. 

Bilbo shoved his hands in is pockets and turned to head down the hallway when he felt his fingers hit something. As though it called to him Bilbo slowly pulled his hand out of his pocket and produced the key. For such a small thing it felt like it weighed the world. He couldn’t remember taking it out of the dresser in his parent’s bedroom yet here it was, blinking up at him in the warm golden light. 

The itch to move on from the study warred with this sudden urge he had to fling the door open and shed light onto the forgotten room. What would it look like? Would it still be the homely room with piles of books and the glowing hearth? Or would it be a husk?

Bilbo closed his fingers around it and took a deep steady breath before stepping forward and placing the key in the keyhole. The sound of the lock clicking was almost too loud, what more was the sliver of light that passed through the opening as he pushed the door aside.

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. The room looked as it always had, not a paper out of place or a book left ajar. There was a thin coat of dust and perhaps a few cobwebs but the room welcomed him like an old friend. Bilbo carefully stepped through the threshold and over to the desk. A small slip of paper sat upon the angled writing board. It looked to be a list, and in his father’s unmistakable cursive. 

_Coat, book, inkpot, pipe, parchment…._

He could almost hear his father listing off the items as he wrote them down. Bilbo smiled fondly, willing back the tears that threatened to come forth. He swallowed down the knot in his throat and moved over to grab a piece of parchment and a quill. The door was left ajar, a small note tucked into the key, as if it had always been there. 

“So you’re going after all…” Old Took mumbled as he sifted through each page of document, adding a date and signature. Bilbo didn’t reply, choosing instead to just politely smile and sit quietly with his hands folded on his knees. 

By now the sun had risen to mid morning and the din of the market could be heard through the cracked window on the south side of the office. The noise was oddly nostalgic, not the same nostalgia he felt when he’d accompany his father to buy parchment and ink, or when his mother would purchase ingredients for supper. It was different, not bad, nor good, just distant like a memory long past but familiar. 

“And you have your house arrangement?”

Bilbo nodded and shuffled through his bag, producing the document and sliding it easily across the desk into wrinkled hands. 

“I believe it is all there,” Bilbo found himself saying, “I don’t suppose I’ve missed anything.” 

Old Took grunted in acknowledgement, skimming over the document until the last page.

“Drogo Baggins is to take Bag End?” 

“Yes,” Bilbo affirmed. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”

Old Took fixed Bilbo with a contemplative look. “The law dictates that property can only be held by one who is of age,” he stated.

“And he will be,” Bilbo replied resolutely, “ _’—In the absence of the owner after a proclaimed amount of time, all property and possessions of the former will fall to whom is written within their deed, unless upon return before the final date of the proclaimed absence—‘_.”

Bilbo watched the old hobbit carefully.

“That is the law, is it not?" Bilbo continued, “I have proclaimed my absence to be that of three months. Drogo will be of age by then. And Bag End will be his.”

Speaking the words out loud was strange though Bilbo was certain he could not have it any other way. He held the Thane’s gaze until the old hobbit let out a long sigh and turned back to the final page of the document. Bilbo watched until the point of the quill lifted from the paper and the wax stamp was placed upon it. 

“Everything looks to be in order,” the old hobbit concluded. 

Bilbo nodded and carefully stood from his chair. Whatever he was feeling in the moment he couldn’t call it catharsis. There was a weight that lifted, but its troubles remained unknown to him. 

“Farewell Bilbo Baggins.” 

The young hobbit turned back to the Thane. There was something in the old hobbit’s eyes, perhaps it was remorse, or sympathy, Bilbo couldn’t tell. 

“Farewell,” he replied softly.

When he finally stepped out into the day Bilbo let his shoulders fall, taking a slow, deep breath. He closed his eyes for a moment and listened. His heart steadied as the crisp morning air filled his lungs and the idle noise of the world faded together. 

The soft whinny of a pony drew his attention and he opened his eyes to find Gandalf standing a few paces off. The old man smiled kindly to him, beckoning him with a lift of the reigns. 

Bilbo made his way over and briefly checked the saddle and his pack before mounting. A few passed them by, staring curiously and Bilbo nodded to them in acknowledgement. When they hastily turned their gaze away he found he felt no fear or shame. 

“Shall we?”

Bilbo turned his gaze to Gandalf and nodded.

They left Hobbiton just as the sun rose to midmorning. The path would take them east, along the road out past Frogmorton toward Bree. From there the road would be unknown. 

Bilbo glanced once more at the round green door at the top of the hill. It was bathed in sunlight and he could see the thin trail of smoke lifting from the chimney over the kitchen. Drogo must have invited Old Gamgee in for tea. The halfling let out a short chuckle before urging his pony forward and not looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all this chap made me a bit emotional. I was fretting over how to move Bilbo forward from the last chap, and while it is not over for him it felt good to have him experience a bit of joy again. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. The road is ahead, home is behind! And where might it take our favorite little hobbit!


	6. The Dream

It did not take long for the green hills of Hobbiton to disappear behind the forests of Frogmorton. The day was still fairly early and their steeds made good time. 

Leaving behind home and hearth and setting out onto the open road filled him with an odd mixture of nostalgia, trepidation, and even a bit of excitement. Only once had he traveled outside the Shire, and to think his first steps beyond would take him across the Misty Mountains and into the unknown lands of the East felt unreal. He was wide-eyed and innocent then, and the world seemed so much more wonderful. Even now he could not find it in himself to fully regain that childhood wonder. 

“How far is Rivendell?” Bilbo inquired, once he’d urged his pony forward until he was astride with Gandalf. The grey wizard gazed down at him, blowing a small ring of smoke out of the cup of his pipe.

“About a three days ride from Bree by swift steed. Four on average” the old man replied matter-of-factly. 

Bilbo sat back in his saddle a bit at the thought. The time they left Hobbiton would get them just past the crossing at the Brandywine by nightfall. They would most likely end up camping on the edges of the Old Forest, which Bilbo was not certain he was looking forward to. There were tales of that forest being home to strange magics, but perhaps having a wizard as a traveling companion nullified that threat. 

“Lord Elrond will be taking a caravan east,” Gandalf added, “We will be joining them, I figure.”

“That most certainly sounds ideal,” Bilbo replied agreeably. He rather liked that outcome. The elves were regarded as some of the wisest in all of Middle Earth. Along with the wizards they had watched many ages begin and end, and had seen kingdoms rise and fall. The wealth of knowledge they must posses intrigued the hobbit greatly and he hoped he would have some time outside of his duty as representative to learn all that he could. 

“I must say it is quite a strange thing to be going on this journey,” Bilbo confessed as they rounded the next bend in the road. The old wizard peered over at him quizzically. 

“Strange?”

Bilbo’s gaze fell to where his hands gripped the reigns.

“I guess I thought I’d never end up going on an adventure,” he continued, “Not after…”

The grey wizard let out a long acknowledging sigh. A hard knot formed in Bilbo’s throat and he did his best to push it away. His pony gave a small whinny, rustling her mane a bit when a few flies buzzed around her ears. Bilbo took the moment to distract himself, running a hand along her fur just in front of his saddle. 

“There are many things we do not plan for,” Gandalf spoke, “Even I must remember things of the past will not last forever.” 

“I suppose even wizards must confront the limits of the world,” Bilbo added. Gandalf looked thoughtfully over at the halfling, a few more smoke circles rising up from his pipe in earnest. 

“What made you change your mind, if I might ask?”

Bilbo couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face. 

“An old friend gave me a bit of a kick in the rear,” he replied with a soft chuckle. Gandalf raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing more. 

They stopped around mid afternoon to rest their steeds and take a late lunch. By then the sun had dipped a bit lower in the sky and the heat of the afternoon had set in. Bilbo did his best to stay cool, shedding his traveling coat and securing it to his pack before heading over into the shade where Gandalf sat resting against a tree. They shared some pipe weed and talked about mundane things over some bread and sliced apples. The halfling even got the wizard to confess his reasoning for using his magic to create fireworks. 

“I think it’s a perfectly acceptable use of my magic,” the wizard declared defensively when Bilbo fell into a fit of laughter. 

“Of— of course it is!” Bilbo agreed once he composed himself again, “It’s just… unexpected, I guess. A mighty wizard making fireworks.”

Gandalf only grumbled in response, turning his attention to the last of his apple slices. Bilbo couldn’t stop giggling for the rest of their break. He blamed it on the pipe weed. 

Much to the hobbit’s relief they passed over the crossing before the sun had fully set and made camp made camp just beyond. With what light remained Bilbo set about collecting firewood and tinder while Gandalf took their steeds to the river to drink. Though Bilbo wasn’t keen on being left alone he found comfort in the notion that the rocky outcrop on the north side of their camp hid them from the road.

It didn’t take long for darkness to envelop the land once the sun slipped behind the horizon. And with it the forest came alive with a whole new host of creatures. The cadence of the crickets faded away to the calling owl, and fireflies winked coyly as they floated between the trees.

Bilbo settled as comfortably as he could into his bedroll, propping himself up against his pack while he finished the last of his meager supper. The campfire crackled steadily on its supply of sticks and gave off enough light that the halfling considered pulling his notebook out to write. 

It was more a last minute item he threw into his pack as he was dashing out the door. He didn’t expect to have much time to write for himself on his journey. The business he would need to attend and the fatigue of travel were more likely to consume his time. And what free moments he might get he was sure to be too exhausted. Even now they were only half a day in and he could feel the exhaustion set in. The dull ache in his legs and back from riding all day was going to be a discomfort to reckon with come morning. 

Regardless he pulled the notebook out anyway and opened it to the pages where he scrawled his poems and stories. As he turned one of the pages to find the start of a short story he’d written called The Dwarf and Fae the page marker fell askew and landed in his lap. Bilbo grumbled as he carefully fished the length of twine from his bedroll and set about placing back in his notebook. A glint of silver at the end of the twine gave him pause though.

Bilbo furrowed his brow and held it up to the firelight. 

“Of course…” he breathed quietly to himself, a small smile forming on his lips as he gazed upon the silver cylindrical bead that twinkled back at him. The engravings were as mesmerizing now as they were when he first received it. 

“Well, I don’t think a bookmark is the proper use for you,” he told the bead as he carefully wrapped the twine about his wrist. Satisfied with how snug it fit when he looped the ends into a secure knot before admiring his handiwork, “That’s much better, isn’t it?”

“What’s much better?”

Bilbo practically jumped out of his skin as Gandalf’s voice interrupted the stillness of the camp, his notebook practically flying from his hands. Luckily it hadn’t ended up in the fire.

“Could you not do that?!” Bilbo demanded from where he sat, hand pressed firmly to his chest as he tried to calm his racing heart. 

“Oh, my apologies,” the wizard frowned, settling down on his bedroll and watching the hobbit with concern, “I didn’t intend to startle you so.”

Bilbo mumbled out that it was fine, brushing the dirt from the pages of his notebook before tucking it away and deciding that it was probably best if he just went to sleep. 

“Suppose I’ll get any good sleep tonight” he joked as he eased down into his bedroll. The wizard chuckled.

“You need not worry, Bilbo Baggins,” the wizard reassured, “Rest now. It’s going to be a long journey.”

The forest was cold and grey when he awoke. There was a disquieted stillness in the air that left him uneasy, and if the birds sat up in the treetops they didn’t sing.

Bilbo sat up from his bedroll and glanced around the camp. The fire still crackled and he could see that Gandalf’s bedroll remained but the wizard was nowhere to be seen. He called out but there was no response. 

“Perhaps he’s gone to tend the horses…” the halfling mumbled absentmindedly as he got up to look for his companion. 

He didn’t find Gandalf with the horses, or it was more he didn’t find the horses either, though he was sure they’d been tethered to a couple trees just nearby the camp. The next place to check would be the river but Bilbo found his feet carrying him up out of the woods and onto the road instead. A crow flew overhead and landed on an old snag across the dirt path, its beady eyes stared down at the halfling and for a moment Bilbo felt a pang of ill ease. 

The road was empty save for a low mist that crept across it just down the way. He could see the crossing to the west so he made his way to the bridge. Maybe he could spot Gandalf from there. 

His hurried pace slowed as he neared the bridge. Something felt wrong. The ill ease from before only seemed to worsen as he neared the wooden crossing and the mist that covered the road seemed drawn to it. 

“Gandalf?” he called.

He got no response but the appearance of a figure on the bridge drew the hobbit’s attention. They stood about halfway across, their face obscured by a hooded cloak and from where Bilbo was standing he couldn’t quite make out if they were man or dwarf or something else. 

“Excuse me,” he waved to the stranger, “By chance have you seen a wizard?”

They didn’t respond. Bilbo frowned and cautiously walked out onto the bridge. 

“Hello,” he called again, “Can you hear me?”

The figure turned toward him. Now that he was a little closer he could see that they were not much taller than a hobbit though their face was still obscured, even this close. There was nothing particularly striking about the stranger though Bilbo noticed that their cloak was not dark. In fact it was the color of the forest, a radiant green like when the sunlight hits the tops of the leaves. Something was familiar about it but the halfling couldn’t place it. 

Bilbo halted a few paces from the stranger when they lifted a formless arm up and pointed off the bridge. He glanced in the direction but saw nothing except the trees and mist. 

“Is there something there?” he asked

The stranger let their hand fall to their side and turned toward the railing of the bridge. Bilbo watched with curiosity as the stranger stepped over to the railing and climbed up on it. He had half a mind to call out to them again but before he could they stepped off. 

A rush of panic filled the halfling as he dashed over to side. The mist thickened around him as he climbed up railing to gaze over the edge. Black spots flickered on the corners of his vision as he strained to find the stranger in the water below but it was to no avail. The water was dark and the current was fast. By now they’d have been swept downstream. 

A prickling sensation crawled up the halfling’s neck as he turned his gaze up saw four figures standing on the western bank of the river. They too were pointing out across the water. Bilbo couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away as they all turned toward him. 

Terror filled the halfling’s heart and he quickly climbed down off the railing. He had to make it back to the camp. He had to find Gandalf. Something was terribly wrong here, everything was wrong. 

He wouldn’t make it back to camp because when he turned to run the stranger on the bridge was there, reaching out to him with clammy hands and whispering his name.

Bilbo shot up from his bedroll, a wordless cry erupting from his throat. The black flecks of sleep flickered on the edges of his vision as his eyes came into focus. A thin sheen of sweat covered his face and neck, and the thumping of his heart was all he could hear. He glanced frantically about the camp and a wave of relief washed over him to see the fire still crackled warmly and that Gandalf sat across the camp, humming away as he cooked food. 

‘It was just a dream,’ the halfling sighed, running his hands over his face. It was just a nightmare. 

“Everything alright?” the wizard inquired, fixing Bilbo with a concerned look when the hobbit settled back against his pack again. 

“Just a bad dream,” Bilbo replied, staring up at the canopy above him. It must have been no later than seven as the sunlight had just barely kissed the very tops of the trees. 

The halfling rolled out of his bedding with a deep exhale and slowly began to get ready for the day. The crisp cool of the morning air was a far cry to the thin layer of dew that had soaked into his bedroll during the night. Couple that with the sweat cooling on his face and the back of his neck and the hobbit found himself in an utterly uncomfortable state. Bilbo was sure he’d never hated the outdoors as much as he did now. Not to mention every joint in his body ached, and there was still more of that to come.   
He was handed a small bowl of stew and a few slices of dried ham, which tasted surprisingly good despite the stew being just a mix of vegetables and herbs in hot water. The halfling huddled down next to his pack and ate his breakfast silently, eyeing the woods around them. 

When Gandalf went off to prepare their steeds Bilbo took the time to clean up the camp. He checked to make sure the ashes were cool before scraping them up and tossing them off into a little nook next to the rock outcropping. The dirt where the fire sat he turned over a bit and sprinkled leaves and twigs in its place before moving his pack out of the clearing and roughing up the ground a bit where he’d lain. Satisfied with his handiwork he carefully pulled his pack onto his shoulders and made his way down to the river where Gandalf was securing their saddles. With some help Bilbo hoisted his pack onto his pony and strapped it down before heading over to the riverbank and filling his waterskin.

He found himself eyeing the west bank and the bridge. There was nothing there. No mist, and no shadowy figures hovering like ghosts. 

“It was just a dream,” he whispered to himself. 

It was nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! 
> 
> I actually had this written before the previous chapter and knew it had to be in the story somewhere. This was one of those parts that suddenly comes up as you're going through the writing process and it almost feels wrong to leave it out. Like it is important to the story in a way that isn't quite revealed yet. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy and thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm telling myself now that this is the last 'new' fic I'm allowed to post. I've made a resolution to make an effort to not leave these stories unfinished, and I intend to keep it. 
> 
> That said, I needed to write myself a multi-chapter Bilbofur/Boffins fic and am excited to see how this one develops. Parts of this story have been brewing in my head for a while now and I'm hoping that I can manage to organize it into a comprehensive and readable story. 
> 
> A few notes about this first chapter: I know that hobbits and dwarves age at different rates in Tolkein's universe so for the sake of this story I decided to have them be a bit ambiguous. I didn't want to deal with the numbers quite honestly, but hopefully I can manage to convey it properly. All I'll say is Bilbo falls into the hobbit version of his early teens, and Bofur in the dwarven version of his early teens. Whatever those ages may be.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading if this fits your fancy!
> 
> (ps: i'll definitely have to adjust the tags as this story comes to fruition as I was unsure where to start the ratings but for now this is what they'll be).


End file.
